


Potatoes (By Any Other Name)

by heartsyhawk



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 20:41:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13865616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartsyhawk/pseuds/heartsyhawk
Summary: Karl Thekla has kitchen duty for laughing at a prank he firmly denies involvement with and meets the mysterious Ander kid for the first time.





	Potatoes (By Any Other Name)

**Author's Note:**

> Karl is 15-16 and Anders is 13.
> 
> \---  
> Disclaimer:
> 
> I do not own the characters or universe portrayed within and am making absolutely no profit from playing in this universe.

Karl sauntered into the kitchen and sought out the head cook.

“'Evening, Ma’am. Enchanter Brigitte told me to--”

“I received the missive from the Enchanter hours ago. You are late,” the cook said curtly. She looked up from the list she was writing with a steely look in her eyes. “You know the routine. Carrots, turnips, and potatoes need peeling. Keep the scraps for the stew pot; once you fill a basket, ring for the Tranquil. Need you filling three baskets of each before four bells.”

“Ma’am, yes, Ma’am,” he gave her a mock salute. 

“Don't you sass me, Thekla.” The cook huffed. “For that you can see to the bushel of apples too.”

He pulled a face but nodded. “Yes’m.”

“Hop to it now, there's a good lad. Oh, I almost forgot. You got company tonight. See that he gets his lot done. And none of your shenanigans. Ser Allen’s only a shout away and I’m more’n capable of boxing your ears myself.” She said sternly and gestured to the cellar door with a quick jab of her arm.

Karl rolled his eyes but entered the cold room and shut the door behind him. He grabbed a basket of potatoes and dropped into a chair near the scrawny blond at the end of the table.

“I see Ol’ Agatha's in a lovely mood,” he said breezily to the other mage as he grabbed a potato. “Don't suppose you know what set her off?”

The kid glanced up, startled, like he hadn't noticed Karl enter. He shook his head and returned his focus to the potato in his hand.

Karl stared at the other mage for a long moment. It was the Ander kid, the one who never talked. The tower had been buzzing with rumors about the boy since he got to the tower, older than any other new mageling in recent memory, because nobody knew anything about him. 

“So what are you in for?” Karl offered a lopsided and mischievous grin. The kid glanced at him suspiciously for a moment and remained silent “Personally, I got root cellar duty because nobody in this establishment appreciates my sense of humor and certain people cannot take a joke.”

The Ander kid stopped clumsily peeling his potato and cocked his head to the side curiously.

“You know Sister Benedictine?” Karl asked. The younger mage wrinkled his nose and nodded once. “And you know how she always is drinking tea with a fuckton of sugar?” Another nod. “Well, someone, nobody knows who, but I’m sure it was someone clever and hilarious and tired of her being such a killjoy,” He said with a wink. “Anyway, like I was saying, somebody switched the contents of the sugar pot and the salt shaker at her table earlier. She added about four spoonfuls of salt to her tea. And didn't notice until she took a big sip.”

Karl couldn't see most of the kid’s face clearly through his longish blond bangs, but he took it as a personal victory that the younger mage’s lips tugged up at the corner into a clear smirk. 

“Serves her right, though,” Karl continued cheerfully. “She wrote the book on salt warding away demons and bloodmages, literally. She loves talking about salt so much it was only a matter of time before the harpy got _a-salted_.”

After a moment of clearly trying to not, the kid made a sound that was clearly a snicker. 

“You can laugh if you want; I've been dying to use that one half the day,” Karl said matter-of-factly. “The only time laughing gets you in trouble is if it’s at a templar--or a Chantry Sister in my case. Unless it's a particularly evil sounding chortle, maybe.”

The younger mage shrugged, still smiling slightly. He tucked his hair behind his ear and reached for another potato.

Karl drew a sharp breath in surprise. The younger boy had a fading black eye and his sleeve had fallen back enough to reveal bruised wrists. Manacles. It made him even more curious about the rumors about the kid. Unfortunately, his reaction made the younger mage freeze and shake his hair back over the side of his face.

“Who did that?” Karl asked before he could stop himself. The kid shrank in on himself and shrugged.  
Anger flashed hot through Karl even as he chastised himself for asking. 

“Templars, then,” he answered himself dully. “When? ... It's alright, you don't need to answer, that.”

The boy looked at him, eyebrows knit and nose scrunched. He closed his eyes and thought for a moment. He chewed his lip and then held up two fingers. 

“Two days?!” Karl gaped. The bruise was yellowed and he would have guessed it had been healing considerably longer. “It looks like it is healing well, but I could help it along some more, if you’d like me to.”

The kid raised an eyebrow and shrugged a shoulder but that wasn't a no, so Karl set down his peeling knife and potato and reached for the boy’s face. His clinical study of the bruise (and scrapes just over the eyebrow that looked very much like they would line up perfectly with points on the back of a Templar gauntlet) was met with wariness.

“You must have some latent healing talent,” he whistled. “I don't need to do much.” He cast into the fade and called a nearby spirit to his aid. There was a gentle warmth as a compassion spirit lent it's energy to expedite the healing process. “You’re in... primal classes, right?” A nod. “Pity, I think you would do really well with the Spirit School. Maybe you could be a Spirit Healer someday, if you can stand Enchanter Wynne being all sanctimonious and preachy. Hold still, almost done. There, that should be a lot less tender.”

The kid gingerly reached shaking fingers up to his eye and smiled slightly. “Thank you,” he murmured softly.

Karl beamed at him. As far as he knew those were the first words the guy had spoken since he’d got to the Circle at all. “Any time, Kid. The practice is good and it sure beats letting the tin can who backhanded you see the mark on your pretty face for a week or so.” He took a deep breath, and tried to phrase his next words carefully. The last thing he needed was to spook the boy. “You don't need to tell me, if you don't want for any reason. But...if you do want to tell me, who hit you and whatever flimsy reason why, there might be something I can do about it.”

The boy sighed and a darkness rolled through his eyes. He looked back down at his potato. Karl sighed; the kid was most likely not going to talk about it. There were several Templars who picked on the younger mages with little fear of retaliation. But shackles and a gauntlet to the face? That was a bold move. An unsettling one. 

“You know something, I don't think I actually know your name. Everyone just calls you 'The Ander’...” He said lightly.

The boy nodded. He fidgeted and mumbled so quietly Karl almost missed it. “I know.”

“Don't like your real name?”

The kid looked up, golden eyes sharp and narrow. Karl knew he had hit a nerve and threw his hands up as a pacifying gesture. “Hey, I don't put much stock in names given at birth myself. Shit, mine sounds like a cat trying to hack up a hairball.” He rolled his eyes and spat his own name from deep in his throat in an exaggerated fashion. “K-k-karl Thekla.” 

Well, damn. That pulled a giggle from the younger mage! Karl waggled his eyebrows. “See? However bad you think your name is, it probably doesn't sound like cat sick.”

The boy laughed out right. “No, but I wouldn’t mind. I like cats.” 

“You know, I half expected you to have more of an Ander accent, to match your features,” Karl admitted. 

The boy gave him an irritable, withering look and spouted a string of what Karl could only assume was Ander. Karl cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow. “So...I picked up exactly none of that…”

“I said, ‘Do I sound Ander enough like this?’”

Karl laughed. “A lot of us figured that you didn't speak Common... and that's why you never talked.”

The boy smiled weakly. “No, I can speak King's Tongue...Common, you called it. I choose not to. But I know what everyone says to...and about me.” Karl sighed. He had heard a lot of it too, and it was not all nice. “You’d be surprised how few people actually try to talk to me though. It makes sense, I guess. The mages my age have been here for years and we have nothing in common. Older mages are usually in more advanced classes, and the little kids are in beginner classes and half my age on average.”

There was a sad acceptance in his voice. Karl frowned, upset on the kid’s behalf. “Did anyone even ever ask your real name? We shouldn't keep calling you, ‘The Ander kid.”

The kid sighed. “The name my father chose for me stopped being my “real name” when he took the 30 silver piece reward for leading Templars to an apostate.”

“I’m...sorry,” Karl said weakly. What else was there to say when a kid just told you his father literally sold him to the Templars? “Sometimes original names can be overrated.” He said with sudden inspiration. “Like I said, original names aren't always great. Mine sounds like a vomiting cat, the Templar stationed in the library most nights was named Elliot by parents who I can only assume wanted him called Smelliot, Sister Benedictine literally has the word dick in her name…”

Karl grinned as the kid dissolved into quiet giggles. Ah, the power of a decent dick joke. “See? Not the best name choices, any of those. What are people thinking? But I don't think it's a name that makes you who you are. A stupid name doesn't mean all that much. You're still you.”

The younger mage gave him a skeptical look.

“Just look at the potatoes,” Karl said enthusiastically. The boy raised an eyebrow and glanced at the potato in his hands. “No, not literally.” Karl corrected. “Potatoes were originally called _papas_ where they found them in Rivain. They have all different names, in all different languages. I couldn't pronounce what the elves call them, which is a shame because it was a cool word. The Qunari called them and sweet potatoes _betatas_ , which was how we got the word potatoes, I think, but the Chantry would never admit it. The Enchanter originally from Starkhaven once called them _buntàtas_ …Fuckin’ Orlesians call ‘em _pommes de terre_ , or apples of the earth because Orlesians just don't care about making sense. They just don't.” Karl shook his head in disgusted bafflement.

The younger mage chuckled. And then, somberly, he whispered, “ _brambory_ ”.

“Beg pardon?” Karl blinked.

“Brambory, it what Anders call them.” The boy said simply. 

“Brambory...I like it,” Karl grinned, “Now all of those words are describing the same thing, more or less. And in Common, it's the potato. Or if you're the Amell kid with the prissy Marcher accent “pet-tay-tuh”, obviously.” He explained. “It isn't super important what someone is calling it. _Brambory, buntàtas,_ or even _pommes de terre_ , you are still talking about potatoes.”

“I guess,” the younger mage said thoughtfully.

“You could always pick a new one, a name you like.”

“So the Templars can ruin that one too? I don't see the point.” The boy said firmly. “I’ve had quite enough idiots mocking my name for one lifetime.”

“They...made fun of your name?” Karl frowned as two bright spots appeared on the other mage’s cheeks.

The kid nodded bitterly. “If you don't know how Anders pronounce certain letters, my name looks very much like it rhymes with a girl’s name. Ser Stupid Tin Can Face once had a girlfriend with that particular name. He and his friends found it hilarious. So while my phylactery and any records they have on me have my birth name, I decided that I did not want to be hearing a girl's name used an insult ever again.” He threw his potato into the basket with a look of disgust on his face. “It sucks though, I liked it well enough when it was pronounced the right way…” He shrugged and shrank in on himself.

“I don't blame you,” Karl said softly. “It’s a terrible thing to have your own name taken from you like that. But...still you shouldn't just have a dehumanizing label. It makes things worse.”

The kid shrugged. “I got torn from my Mom’s arms, force-fed magebane until I puked, and carried here in chains by a man who mocked me by calling me his ex-girlfriend's name for three weeks until he dropped me off here. There's a little glass vial full of my blood so they can hunt me down like a dog. And I am supposed to spend the rest of my life in this stupid tower. Not having a name is the least of my “dehumanized” problems.”

“I can't really argue with that,” Karl agreed somberly. “But I think that's why it's important. The Templars love reminding us they don't consider us people like them. And of we start believing that ourselves...well that's a bad road to go down.”

The kid shrugged. “I don't believe it, but it doesn't really matter. They do.” 

Karl nodded and they peeled in silence for a while. “Wish I could say you were wrong. But as long as we're in here, there's not much to do about it, Kid.”

The young mage gave him an indescribable look. His bright eyes simmered angrily and his upper lip curled at the edge. He was smug and confident and furious and pleased with himself all at once. He leaned in close to Karl, and spoke in a firm, measured, and quiet tone. “That is exactly why I will not stay in here.”

Karl gaped at him. “Is it true what they say about you then, that you tried to escape?”

The boy scoffed. “I did more than just try.”

“You got out?” Karl blinked. “How? When?!”

“Picked the lock on the front door in the middle of the night a few months after I got here, the first time.” The kid said matter-of-factly. 

“You picked the lock,” Karl said skeptically.

“It was easy.” The younger boy shrugged. “One simple lock and I was out for almost two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” Karl parroted weakly.

The Ander kid nodded. “It might have been longer, if I hadn't stopped to help Bann Ferrenly. I don't regret saving him, but he did immediately go telling people what happened. The trackers caught up to me that night while I was sleeping.” 

Karl whistled. “Damn, Kid, damn. Wait...you said that was the first time? Implying...more than just the one?!”

The boy sighed. He rubbed the places on his wrist that had born manacle bruises before Karl’s healing session. “I just got back from my second successful outing a couple hours ago. I hid in a shipment of enchanted junk. But the caravan got robbed and the bandits handed me right over to some Templars for a reward, so it was only four days.”

“Four days outside the tower, though.” Karl grinned. “That's more than I’ve had in almost ten years, if you don't count the weekly outdoors exercise hour. I'm guessing that's why the...that?” He gestured to the kid’s eye and wrists.

The boy nodded, eyes flashing. “Ser Biff was the receiving Templar.”

Karl winced. Everyone in Kinloch knew that name. He was a bully, one who loved any excuse to hit someone. He was the Knight-Captain’s nephew, and thus reporting him was futile. “You okay?” A stupid question, Apostate Retrieval Duty meant Biff did not have to restrain himself or be careful not to leave marks.

“Magebane should wear off by dinner and you healed the bruises.” The kid shrugged one skinny shoulder. “Next time, I'll plan to make a break for it when he’s on dungeon duty or something.”

“Already planning on going again?” Karl asked mildly.

“As soon as I can,” the younger boy confirmed. “This place sucks.”

“You’ve got guts, Kid. That is for damn sure.” Karl laughed. “But in the meantime, I really need something to call you other than Kid. It doesn't feel right. You aren't seven.” He offered a lopsided grin. “We should pick you a new name. One that's all yours and your Da didn't pick and the Templars won't have as easy a time teasing with.” He raised an eyebrow at the four potatoes in the boy's basket and glanced at his own, half full despite starting well after the younger mage. “I expect we’re going to be here a while.”

“It’s the first time I've done this.” The younger boy wrinkled his nose. “They just said peel the stupid things, it isn't like they showed me how.”

“Ah, well, I've probably spent too much time here, to be honest.” Karl laughed. “But Agatha took pity on me and showed me a faster way than just clumsily attacking it like you are. Pull your chair close and I’ll share the hallowed wisdom of peeling potatoes.” He said dramatically. “And then while we're peeling we can see about getting you a new name. I'm afraid I don't know too many Anders, or...well any except you now that I think of it. But between the two of us, we'll figure it out, I think. Probably. How 'bout Peter?”

The boy wrinkled his nose. “The Templar at the Chantry in my hometown called his son that.”

“That's a no, then. Wilbur?”

“No.”

“Phillip?”

The boy snorted with laughter. “My Mom's horse is called Phillip.”

“Um...Thomas?”

“I have an uncle whose name is the equivalent in Ander. He’s a drunk.”

“Ok...are there any names you like? Maybe names Anders might use?”

“I...I’m the only one here with Ander features, aren't I?”

“As far as I know.” Karl shrugged. “There used to be an Enchanter from the Anderfels, had the same kind of nose and eyes as you, those Ander-y traits, you know. But she's ah...no longer with us.” Karl cleared his throat uncomfortably. “And if there's any other Anders they don't look it and haven't said.”

The boy nodded somberly. “I think I like that, something that distinguishes me from everyone else. There's no other Anders.”

“That’s true…” Karl set down his potato.

“Maybe...maybe that should be my name?”

“It feels more like a descriptor, than a name,” Karl said skeptically.

“Which is perfect. Everybody would know it's me!” The younger mage grinned. “Like with potatoes! They have a simple enough Common name. In Orlesian at least it's a blunt descriptor of what people in Orlais think a potato is. It makes sense to them; they look at potatoes and see an apple that came out of the earth. I’m not really just Ander; I’m Ferelden too, born and raised here,but when people look at me...they usually only see an Ander, all the Anders in Kinloch for that matter.”

“Well, if you're sure you like that…”

“I am.”

“Anders it is then.” Karl grinned at the b--Anders. “Now that we have that settled, let's get these potatoes peeled.”

**Author's Note:**

> All the words for potato actually exist in our world and I tried to make them correspond to the culture the country represents. Tried being the operative word, because I did rely some on google translate. _Papas_ is Rivaini/Spanish, _buntàtas_ is from Starkhaven and is Scots Gaelic, _pommes de terre_ is Orlesian/French. _Betatas_ is admittedly less direct. It's based off the word a lot of languages have for Sweet Potatoes, and it's allegedly where we got the English word potatoes in the first place. _Brambory_ is Czech. There isn't a very clear translation on where the Anderfells is based on, or at least not one I've found. So I decided to use my own headcanon for it until someone tells me otherwise.
> 
> All the side characters in the story are entirely my own, except Ser Biff. In Awakening Anders portrayed him as the kind of guy who woke mages up by kicking them in the head, so I wrote him as the kind of guy who likes hitting.


End file.
